Open Letter to VEET

Hi Veet—Great job with your new “Don’t Risk Dudeness" campaign! I LOVE the implication that a paramedic would be palpably disgusted by one-day-old stubble as she administered emergency treatment! Your depiction of a boyfriend’s morning horror was as hilarious as it was accurate. I can’t tell you how many times this very scenario plays out in my bedroom.

YOU NAILED IT! Congratulations for insulting women everywhere, and luring them over to the dark side of shaving their legs whenever they want to—or not at all.

Heavens above! Save us from hairy women!

"Also on 1st August, Germany declared war on Russia. When presenting his declaration of war, the German Ambassador accidentally gave the Russians both copies of the declaration of war, one which claimed that Russia refused to reply to Germany and the other that said Russia’s replies were unacceptable.”

Oh my god WWI get it together

“I’m not a person who likes to use fiction as a means. I think it’s an irreducible thing, fiction. It’s itself. It’s not a movie, it’s not a political tract, it’s not a slogan. The ways in which I have thought politically, the proteins of that have to be broken down and forgotten about, until it comes out as the sweat on your skin.”

Just finished God of Small Things last night, and I’m still reeling from it. The language is lush, lyrical, and funny, the story just devastating, and more and more so the further into the book you get. According to this excellent profile in the New York Times, it sounds like she is at work on a new novel.

Thanks to the previous post I have been listening to "Walking in the Folly" almost non-stop! I wanted to post the lyrics, becuase I think they are rare in how beautiful they are: with the literary inventions (come alove, mucky verge, interbeen) and vivid images, I think it could stand alone as a poem. Colour me impressed!

Walking In The Folly

I have run a mucky verge
Cheering twigs down a river
Camouflaged by winter’s subtle colors
I have come alove
Muddy water shushed
Me back in my body
Met with longing

I have interbeen
Wintering, in his rumbling brown
Revisiting language unsettlingly round

Two warm hands inside your wooly vest
Do your best to act unimpressed
And to separate the day from the daydream
Two bodies on a centerboard
Muddy water over safety orange
And beneath, the sharpened teeth 
Of the muskellunge slip by
Spidery air on the bottom bare
In the out house at night
Soft sand in your hand
but you’re gripping too tight

I have swam past his fingers.
They were perfect fifths in two rivers
I have secured to memory the shiver
I thought one of us would be lost
Walking in the folly
Body follows body

Instead, I’ve been roused
From the couch hunch
Where I have been
I have found new ground
To plant the old seed in
I have left just a thumbprint
In the midst of his chin
I have been pushed back from the edge
By just the wind
Hiked down to the human town
to try it all again
Knocked off a stock song to forget about it in

Thanks to Cole for pointing me to this excellent ode to spudship. You can just picture the lipstick melting off of those potato-head lips.

Happy Friday to all by especially my number one spud.

[Record no oiled tongue, diary]

Record no oiled tongue, diary—
Note my lantern bruises the low
Clouds with light the evening
We talked. Almonds in a bowl;
She ate none. I did
Not bid her remove her dark
Gloves as sometime before she had done.
Her dress not so clean as before.
A last brand not rescued to flame—
No billow but breath, and breath
Too short a line to twine
Our hands in marriage: I left
A last time. Her in widow’s silk—
My lantern clothed in morning
Dawns on this road so late tonight
The white birches I believe,
I believe I could have loved
Her, her white wrists
White the birch trees by lantern bared,
Black gloves pulled off at night
Become the night … . Do you hear?
That pulse? The deer wander
Between her hands, glean fallen
Seed at hand, bed down in fallen
Needles and grass. Those green discs
Afloat in the night are their eyes
Caught in lantern light. Can it be
So many wake the forest glows
With sight? See and am seen. A pulse
At the stump is breath and rest
And breath again. Infinite
In store the game of this land.
Note the plumage of the turkey.
Note the thick meat at breast.
Sap: syrup. Pine: plank. A copse
Of wood is cord for furnace. A copse
Is cottage, too. The owl in the hollow
Tree screeches because I am too close
To truth. Note the almond
Tree overmuch with fruit. The almond
Pressed is oil sweet. The almond bit
Is a smoky meat that leaves—note it:
The tongue bathed in oil.
—Dan Beachy-Quick

My favorite shot didn’t make it onto the Millay Colony website, so I’m posting it here for posterity.